


Rarely Pure and Never Simple

by soda_coded



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alpha!Malcolm, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Deception, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Parent/Child Incest, Unhealthy Relationships, omega!martin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:22:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23193916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soda_coded/pseuds/soda_coded
Summary: “Why are you here?” Malcolm asked the ceiling, voicing his query upward to God. “Why- I don’t want to- just . Why, why come to me? Why not mother or Ainsley?”“My ex-wife? The city’s star reporter?” He mocked, and even his breath smelled like honey and chamomile, washing hotly from his mouth to Malcolm’s cheek. “Or my boy-”“-thepolice consultant.” Malcolm finished for him.On Hiatus
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Comments: 36
Kudos: 128





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Should be updating this pretty steadily for the time being as my work let out for the week. This was fun to write. I enjoy seeing Malcolm get to flex :D Quote from Malcolm's chosen reading is Oscar Wilde, as is the title.

Malcolm presented late in life, even for a Milton.

His mother blamed it, of course, on his father. Her lack of social friends, even those bought laid at his feet, atop Ainsley’s trouble sleeping and Malcolm’s unstable grade point. Seventeen and unpresented,  _ almost unheard of _ .

Still, she seemed to hate it once he did. Another alpha in the house kept her on edge, at least around him. His mother had always been aggressive, even for an alpha, even when Dad had still been home, steeping the house in his warm tea scent. Once he’d presented, all they did was fight, Ainsley caught between them, the beta playing reluctant mediator.

Sitting at the breakfast counter now, Malcolm felt severely seventeen. In another minute he would be excused, and Adolfo would drive Ainsley and him to school, the private one half an hour away. 

“Please mother, Malcolm said he already had a new job. He’s occupied!” Ainsley turned to him expectantly. He wasn’t the only one being forced back into old shoes. Watching Ainsley redirecting Mother’s bad temper made Malcolm tired. “What, uh, what did you say you were doing again?”

“I hadn’t.” He said. “But I’ve been consulting for the PD.”

Jessica gasped, her eyebrows drawing together like a fan snapping shut. She looked upset. She often did, looking at him. Malcolm smoothed an anxious hand down the sleek of his tie. He’d already known she’d hate the news, which was why all he’d told Ainsley was that he was working again.He spoke quickly, trying to keep the upper hand.

“I’m working directly under Gil. It’s been… helping, Mother. Keeping me busy. You know how I am with too much time on my hands.”

“Mmm. Well, better with Gil, I suppose.” She intoned, subsiding for now, while still making it clear she was entirely unsupportive of the concept. It made Malcolm grit his teeth. “Maybe I’ll drop in sometime, bring you lunch. Does Gil still have the same office?”

Malcolm dropped his hands to his lap, to hide how they trembled, but when her eyes chased the motion it was practically an admittance instead. Why did she always have to do this?

“How have your nightmares been?” She asked, like he wasn’t having one right now.

At least this question, Malcolm was used to fielding. His lips lifted in a soft, assured smile. A practiced smile. 

“I’ve been sleeping very well.” Malcolm lied.

  
  
  


He didn’t get out for another hour, not until dinner and dessert and coffee and the latest tea about the few friends his mother had kept over the years. He shook out his coat as he took the steps two at a time, as though he could dispel the energy of the place. Resettled his cuffs, his collar, the press of his belt before he slid into the backseat of his mother’s Bentley. Met Adolfo’s eyes in the rearview mirror as he did so, warm and knowing.

“Home, please.” Malcolm sighed, letting his head loll back onto the leather headrest, like he had as a kid, after school. It was less comfortable now that he was older. Which seemed wrong, cars were designed for adults.

“And I thought you were home, sir.” Adolfo said cheerfully, and Malcolm tried on a smile for him.

He wasn’t sure he was feeling it himself.

They cut down the road, smooth as ever, the car traversing already darkened streets. It wasn’t long before they were rolling up to his building and Malcolm let himself out slowly, giving his head time to clear of the thoughts he’d gathered on the ride there.

Entering his home immediately alleviated some of his stress, even if he felt stupid and textbook for it. After he’d been let go in DC and had gone home to his bare walls and empty shelves, he’d realized what he should have realized all along. 

Work wouldn’t ever be enough. Not to sate  _ every _ need he had. Not to keep him thinking, keep him running, and still drag him down, and hurt him the way he wanted, needed to be used. Way too much to expect from a job. Too much to expect from a partner. 

So, he’d tried with this one, even if it belonged to his mother. Photos of him with Gil and Jackie, clipped to the fridge, photos of him and his mother leaned carelessly on the mantelpiece. He’d had a weapons rack built, and had finally dragged them all out from storage. The paper stars Ainsley had cut out for the birthday he’d spent grounded, red and gold glitter paper hung re-pinned from his doorway, just high enough that they wouldn’t brush his hair when he walked through. Everything smelled of sandalwood and bergamot- he’d read that smell could trigger memories.

He was trying to make new ones.

Malcolm took his jacket off and tossed it across the arm of a chair, kicking his shoes just beside it. A meal with his mother had hardly been an auspicious start to this day off. This enforced day off, which Malcolm supposed wasn’t very auspicious either.

_ ‘You need to take a few days.’  _ Gil had told him, thumb brushing just under his ear, a small gesture of comfort that was already helping to center Malcolm’s jangled nerves. The soft scent of him filtered around him, and Malcolm had wanted to open his mouth and scent him fully. Gil always smelled like sweet butter and cornbread _. ‘You’re running on air, Malcolm. Just… go home. Eat something. Try to sleep. Okay?’ _

Malcolm had nodded. Let go, even if that was the last thing he wanted to do. It wasn’t Gil’s job to take care of him, omega or not.

He slid a finger between his tie and his collar, loosening it in slow movements before sliding it free and off, leaving it draped on the kitchen counter as he swung open the fridge and reached for a bottle of water. He’d done the rest of the list. He’d gone home. He’d eaten.

Now with the help of a few pharmaceuticals, prescribed, unlike mother’s, maybe he’d finally get some sleep. He crossed the kitchen to the cabinet where he kept his medicine, often ignored. Today, he needed it. The current case weighed on him, as well as the news he’d heard today. Some of the oafs in office were planning a bill to re-instate the death penalty. It was years from being a problem, but should it grow to fruition, Martin’s case would certainly make him a candidate.

His father was in prison until he died, natural causes or not.

Malcolm stood for a moment, reaching up a hand to rub along the back of his own neck, the sorest place on him after a long day. Guilt weighed on him, an unwieldy burden,no matter how quick his profile landed a suspect. His father's sins were a miserable inheritance.

_ 'Can you carry it, son? You got it- Good job!' _

Malcolm started on his buttons with dull eyes. He just wanted to sink into the silence of his home, too tired to unwind, too wound up to relax. He'd already silenced his phone, petty revenge for Gil forcing him to take this personal day. Malcolm relaxed chasing down criminals, not by secluding himself. So did Gil, not that he'd ever admit it. His hands went to his belt, and Malcolm let his pants lie where they fell, leaving him bare.

When Malcolm wanted to really sleep, deep and immovable, he slept naked. Probably some emotional trigger for subspace, the only other thing that put him to sleep as well as his depression did. He was normally naked for subspace, but naked for sleep only when he'd gone so long without, that he wanted it. That he craved it enough to submit himself to the whims of his mind. That the lack of control was a release.

Maybe it had more to do with subspace than he’d thought.

He crawled onto the bed, searching for his cuffs before letting himself sink backwards into his cushions like a good hug. So relieved at the immediate swell of comfort that he didn't move for a long moment, long enough for his body to start to still and go quiet. He makes himself roll to get the chain, and breathes in as he does, scenting sandalwood, and underneath something dry and comforting and crumbling, as though warm black tea had spilled all over the bed-

Malcolm froze, his mouth still open, saliva gathering heavy on his tongue. It smelled like- like- 

Malcolm flung himself to the floor, away from his bed, pure panic controlling him. His bed should smell like sandalwood and night sweat not the sweet nostalgia of his father's study. Sweet black tea, billowed steam and dry, preserved leaves that woke your brain and warmed your heart and Malcolm knew he was crazy, but his nose wasn't-

-was it?

He snatched the pillow closed, laying half off the bed in his desperate escape and pressed his face to it, inhaling directly. The same smells flooded his nose, his shampoo, cold sweat, and bitter tea something dizzying to the smell-

His lamp slid from the table and shattered on the ground from the force of his throw as he flung the pillow from himself. It wasn't possible, he was locked away, Malcolm had made sure of that, locked away behind steel to see only in his dreams.

In his nightmares, Malcolm told himself. He needed to tell… someone, call someone, Gil or his mom. Maybe his therapist, maybe his nose was lying to him. He needed to warn them that Dr. Whitly…

Dad.

Malcolm sunk to the floor, suddenly overwhelmed.If he called them, called anyone, there was only one thing certain to happen.

They'd take the smell- _ the nest away _ . 

Malcolm felt frozen, unable to fight the incomprehensible longing from his hindbrain, kick started by the smell of his childhood, his wants and fears all boiling, until all he could hear was the whistle of the kettle, panic starting low and building. He couldn't make himself move to call them. If he moved at all, it would be to crawl back into that sweet warm trap. Couldn't let himself fall so deep into the sway of a monster that he let himself ruin a crime scene…

_ 'Come here Malcolm. Hop up on Daddy's lap… Comfy? What did you choose to read tonight?' _

Malcolm's hand twitched towards his phone. He'd call mother, he'd call and she'd tell him what to do. He held it, thumb hovering over the power button, staring across the expanse of his bed. God he was exhausted. The medicine must be kicking in, because all he wanted to do was fall asleep. The safest place he'd known, once upon a time. 

Malcolm clicked his jaw shut with some force. Fuck, he hadn't even realized he'd been scenting the air, mouth open, hoping for even a hint of that smell. What was he doing?

His phone powered on with a melodic jingle and Malcolm looked down at the screen, more reflex than decision. It buzzed once as the home screen came up- and then again as the notifications that had collected while the device was dead began to load. Again.

And again and again as his missed calls and voicemails and text messages from everyone he knew. More than he could ever remember getting at once, which considering his mother was a little shocking. He hit 'clear all' and then called his voicemail, already knowing what he was going to hear.

He could already smell it.

Malcolm smiled humorlessly as the phone rang, each blink getting longer. It didn't seem to matter if they already knew. Honey, I'm home… 

Almost trance like from the smell, from the drugging scent of warm, fresh tea, unsteady and nude for only a few more moments. Then, the Prazozin began to kick in and Malcolm let the phone slip from his hand, the scent of omega overwhelming his sleeping mind. Walked the few steps across his floor and collapsed into the most comfortable place in the world for him… his Dad's waiting arms.

Behind him, his voicemail picked up, speaking aloud to the sleeping room.

"Malcolm, this is Gil. I need you to listen carefully-"

_ 'Oh, I love this book. Alright, where were we? 'However, it makes no matter, for now that I look at the inscription inside…' _

"Malcolm, why is your phone off? Come back home darling, I have terrible news-”

_ ‘...I find that thing isn’t….’ _

“Malcolm. It’s me. Dad’s… he’s out. Call me back. Please. I’m scared.”

_ ‘...yours at all. Are you asleep Malcolm? Sweet dreams, sweet boy.’ _

Malcolm slept.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thought this would come out a lot faster, but my job was deemed essential so I have more work to do not less! Thanks for reading.

While Malcolm slept, he dreamed.

He was in his father’s study, playing on the carpet under his desk.

Not… not in the basement. No, they were in the study, upstairs. His father used it for ‘doing the numbers’ something Malcolm didn’t quite yet understand, but that his mother and father argued about quite a lot. He didn’t remember why he was there. Rolling a car across the floor, back and forth on brown shag, imagining long open highways, or sometimes, close, tense racetracks. He was young, in the dream.

More than young, he was  _ small _ , and his father sitting in front of him, was huge even only from the waist down. The desk cut him in half, leaving him to Malcolm piecemeal, the bisected form of his father a warm, secret view.

He could smell him. Malcolm may have presented late, but his sense of smell had always been keen, which meant later, when he awoke he’d have no way to tell if this detail was lived or dreamed. So close to his young, untrained nose. Meant that he had no idea what it meant when he started to smell that slowly, steeping darkness. The rich scent of fresh brewed tea, pre-heat, warm and drifting from the soft place between his father’s gently spreading thighs.

Malcolm tossed in his sleep, restless, hands churning the sheets unchained. Almost immediately there were strong arms holding him down, bracing him in his internal storm.

“I’ve got you. Easy, boy.”

Malcolm shook, his body there, his mind trying so hard to bring him back. Here, in his father’s arms, in his bed, the air around them wreathed with the smell of an omega nearing heat. So much richer, more real than a faded childhood photograph… Malcolm breathed in and opened his eyes, flung back to himself.

“ _ Dad _ .” He said. 

Martin Whitly smiled back at him, close, intimate in the dark of his room. The air around them smelled thick with sugar and milk, the scent wrapping them like a blanket just as the darkness did. Intimately cozy, the same way his dream had felt. It was beyond disorienting, and his father’s eyes creased cheerily as he smiled at Malcolm.

“There you go, son.” He said reassuringly, and Malcolm shook his head, some instinctual denial at the reassurance. “You’re awake now. Your sister was right, those nightmares are a doozy.”

“How.” Malcolm asked, his voice dry from sleep and measured despite the adrenaline skittering into his bloodstream. He should be terrified. He _ was  _ terrified in the dream, just at his father’s presence. Not on the surface level of the dream, but underneath where his conscious mind bled through the subconscious of his dream and told him this comfort meant danger. Here, now, wrapped in the strength of his father’s arms, stronger than any restraint, Malcolm felt so safe. Some of it, he knew, was purely his brain’s chemical reaction. He’d never known his dad to wear suppressants or scent-blockers, so the smell was nostalgic, gently familiar…

… a little arousing, and Malcolm tried to pull away, to jerk back, only Martin’s embrace keeping them tethered together. Immediately, Martin was soothing him, shushing and rubbing warm, capable hands over his back. “How are you here?”

“Easy. We’ll talk about it later.” Martin deflected, batting away Malcolm’s concern like cobwebs. His nonchalance ground at Malcolm’s nerves. “Let’s talk about the nightmares, son. What are they about?”

“What do you think?” Malcolm hissed, and then rolled over onto his back before he could see the hurt on his father’s face, could wonder how real any of it was. He looked at the ceiling for a moment, considering, before deciding to open his mouth anyway. “I need… need to call someone.”

His head felt fuzzy, even for having had so few hours sleep on Prazosin. Must the smell of oncoming heat, thick in the still air of his loft, warmed by the wall of windows to their right. Brewing him in it.

“Why?” His father asked, but underneath his casual tone, that ever present hint of his violent temper, that made Malcolm shiver to hear it. Martin was famous, rare in the world of murder. An omegan killer- rare enough that Malcolm could quote the statistics on them for you. A mated omegan killer, in a caregiving profession? A violent killer, even yet? Martin Whitly, one of a kind. “Let’s talk first… about anything you want to even-”

“Why are you here?” Malcolm asked the ceiling, voicing his query upward to God. “Why- I don’t want to-  _ just _ . Why, why come to me? Why not mother or Ainsley?”

“My ex-wife? The city’s star reporter?” He mocked, and even his breath smelled like honey and chamomile, washing hotly from his mouth to Malcolm’s cheek. “Or my boy-”

“-the  _ police consultant _ .” Malcolm finished for him. The smell of him was making his head spin. Too many memories for his father to be so warm and soft beside him now, greying curls pressed into Malcolm’s pillow case. “I can’t help you- you need to go back-”

“Please, Malcolm, just… just after my heat?” He said, quiet in the still of Malcolm’s room. “I won’t be a bother, you’ll hardly know I’m-”

“You’re on top of me.” Malcolm interrupted, even though it wasn’t exactly true anymore and his father made a noise of discontent. “And I can practically taste your scent.”

He meant for it to come out disgusted, but his words caught on the rasp in his throat, thick with a growl.

“I’m sorry, Malcolm.” He said, too genuine to mean it, not curled into his bed like he was, bleeding delicious tea smells. “How embarrassing. You know I don’t-”

“-don’t take anything. I  _ know _ .” Malcolm said. “I don’t want to know. That’s the problem.”

His dad shifted behind him, as though uncomfortable, but one arm was still thrown across Malcolm’s middle and he was close enough that his beard brushed Malcolm’s upper arm as he spoke.

“I’m sorry, son.” He sounded apologetic. “Your mom hated the smell of blockers, you know that, and it’s simple biology… nothing shameful about it.”

There was everything shameful in how much Malcolm wanted to bury his nose in his father’s neck and breathe in. It wasn’t shame that held him stiff in his father’s arms however, in that Martin was right.

It was want.

‘I can’t… I can’t do this.” Malcolm breathed, and everytime he opened his mouth to talk it was like he took another sip of thick drugging tea. Suddenly, he thought he’d gag if he took another breath, overwhelmed by the casual intimacy. If his father was a drug, Malcolm had been sober for weeks, and this was a hell of a trip.

Malcolm couldn’t fight him, so he just rolled free of the bed and all it’s sweet entrapments- soft pillows, soft cuffs, his dad curled into his bedclothes, nesting with abandon. Scrabbled further away across the floor like a mad man, only to turn and find his father pursuing him with only his eyes. Like a disturbed cat, he hadn’t bothered to chase after Malcolm at all, just re-arranged in the newly opened space. Malcolm could smell himself now, the acrid scent of his fear staining the already sharp iron tang to his scent, sharpening it further.

“This is- This is crazy-” He said. “You can’t be here. I’m not- I’m not-”

“Oh, stop with the dramatics.” Martin snapped, sitting up abruptly enough that Malcolm cowered back against his chest. It made his father’s eyebrows crease together, made less fearsome by his impressive bed head. “I’m not going to kill you, Malcolm- I could never hurt you.”

He said it openly, honestly and Malcolm for the first time voluntarily opened his mouth and scented the air. Thick honey, thinned by milk and a strong brew, his room smelled like they’d spent the day engaging in his favorite type of sexual activities- questionable. It didn’t smell like he was hiding, or fearful.

Still…

“I don’t believe you.” Malcolm said, and his voice was small. “I can’t…  _ can’t _ believe you.”

His father stilled for a moment, regarding him from across the room as he thought. Malcolm couldn’t believe he was even entertaining the idea… But he knew his father hated going through heat in his cell. Knew he was hardly a danger when he’d spend the next three or four days barely able to string words together. He shouldn’t do this- Shouldn’t even be considering it.

“Let me prove it to you.” Martin said, and he looked so earnest… he, fuck, he smelled so good, Malcolm couldn’t take it. Buried his face in his hands. “Please son.”

“Goddamnit.” Malcolm said, and then when the hurt in his heart didn’t abate, he said it again, more loudly. “Goddamnit!”

His father sat on the bed, still like a sentinel, and suddenly Malcolm was furious. He didn’t need this- had been trying so hard to do better.

The steady work from Gil was keeping him stable- he hadn’t actually been to see Martin in almost two months, following his mother’s advice. Had been sleeping- taking his new pills so he didn’t dream. And now this.

“If they find you.” Malcolm said, trying for steady but losing it. “I’ll be an accomplice. Harboring a criminal. I could lose my job, Dad!”

He slammed his bunched fists into his own thighs and Martin jumped at the violent motion.

“Please, son.” He tried again, after a moment of silence.

Martin hauled himself to his feet, only realizing he was still fully naked as he did so. As Martin’s eyes tripped over his body, before making it back to his eyes. It didn’t matter. His father had pieces of himself Malcolm couldn’t even remember- this was nothing in comparison.

“I can’t do this.” Malcolm said finally. He waved his hand in the general direction of the bed. “I won’t- I won’t tell anyone you were here, but you can’t. You can’t stay.”

“Where would you like me to go.” His father asked calmly, and Malcolm had meant it, he couldn’t do this, so he turned his back on him to open his closet, pulling on the first pair of boxers he saw. He was already half-hard from the smell alone- even if Dad left now he’d be smelling it for weeks, caught in the creases of his life. An undershirt next, and it wasn’t until he was buttoning up his collared shirt that Martin spoke.

“Your phone is ringing.” He said, and Malcolm cursed, lunging for the thing as his father held it out. His bed worked as a red line, his phone more dangerous than any scalpel to Martin, but he handed it over gently.

“Why the hell haven’t you been answering your phone?” Gil said roughly, as soon as he picked up. “Your mother-”

“I’ll call her.” Malcolm said, feeling his stress rise as he did up the buttons on his shirt. “I’m sorry, Gil, I fell asleep-”

“You know your father is loose, right?” Gil asked, and Malcolm swallowed. His hands rattled through their tasks, but his voice was steady as he replied.

“I know.” He replied. Met Martin’s eyes as he lied to the closest thing he had to a real father. “I just saw. I’m safe Gil, just… not feeling well.”

“Well, I’m about to come get you.” Gil said and Malcolm froze.

“That won’t be-”

“I’m already in the elevator, Malcolm.” Gil said, dry humor cutting through Malcolm’s polite bullshit. “See you in a minute.”

He hung up with a beep signalling the disconnect, and Malcolm stared at his phone for a moment. Normally it would be comforting. Right now, all he could feel was the panicked adrenaline flooding him, as he looked up at his real father. Martin looked back, still as the abyss and just as implacable.

“What- what do I do?” He asked of him. He couldn’t think through the smell baking into his brain, and this was hardly his area of expertise after all. Malcolm helped solve crimes… not hide them. “He’s almost here.”

He sounded scared, he realized, but it hardly felt unwarranted as a slow smile grew across Martin’s face.

“It’s okay, son.” He said. “I’ll help, since you’re letting your old man crash here.”

“I’m not- jesus- he’s going to smell you-”

“No, no he won’t.” You’re a healthy young alpha- go get your scent blockers, I assume you have some for the crime scenes? Good. Just spray a bunch of that on you, and look guilty.” Malcolm stared at him, as his Dad’s smile widened. “Yes, just like that. Very good.”

“This is very bad.” Malcolm said, shoving his feet into his pants, hands bumbling the buckle. He ran barefoot to his bathroom, raiding his shelves for his rarely used scent blockers. Finally found them in a travel kit and sprayed them liberally over himself, before spritzing the air itself, making Martin’s nose wrinkle with distaste for the dusty chemical smell. “Fuck, why-”

A knock on the door, and Malcolm still didn’t have his shoes or socks, but it didn’t matter. He needed- he needed Gil out of here. This was his  _ nest _ -

Malcolm shook his head, feeling helplessly off center. Another knock and he moved for the door, cracking it to reveal Gil’s worried expression.

“Malcolm-”

“Yeah. What’s up?” He said through the crack, and Gil frowned. He smelled like butter and cornbread, just baked, his scent fresh on his skin from climbing the dozens of stairs to Malcolm’s apartment. “A new case?”

“No, I’ve come to take you to the- what is that smell?” Gil asked. “Did you burn something? It smells awful-”

“Nope! Just… scent blockers. In case… of the case! The one that I thought… nevermind. If you give me just a minute-”

“That doesn’t smell like scent blockers-” Gil said, and then, from behind Malcolm’s chagrined expression, the sound of the shower kicking on. Hopefully it drowned out his desperately beating heart. “Do you have someone in there?”

“...yes.” Malcolm said. He could feel himself sweating under Gil’s assessing gaze. “I-”

He didn’t know what he was going to say, and was therefore glad Gil talked right over him.

“You should have just told me on the phone.” Gil said. “I… didn’t know you were seeing anyone. Okay. Look, I’ll… I’ll tell your mother something, but you know she’ll want to check on you. And we’re still posting security to your building. We don’t know your father’s plans… but he’s obsessed with you.”

“I know.” Malcolm said, and the words came out heavily enough that Gil’s expression softened enough that he just looked tired, not stern. “I’ll call you if… anything. Anything, okay?”

“Okay.” Gil said agreeably enough, and Malcolm loved him for this- almost… almost wished he’d push inside, instead. Come inside and pull apart Malcolm’s festering secrets. Instead, Gil turned on his boot heel, before tossing Malcolm a wink. “Have fun, kid.”

“Yeah.” Malcolm said, and gave a little wave to his retreating back before easing the door shut. “ ‘Fun’. “

His heart was thudding in his chest, his hands leaving moist spots where he pressed them to the door. His breath came faster instead as he tried to calm down. Not that he should be calm… he’d just locked himself in with a serial killer. For once his gut reaction was completely normal. Pure panic.

“Fun.” He said again, as his breath whistled out of him. “Sure.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping to have this finished before the new season.

Malcolm had panic attacks often following the day of his father’s arrest. He was more than familiar with his campus’ stairwells and single bathrooms. Still, he hadn’t had one this bad in years. The shower was a running hiss from beyond his bedroom door, and Malcolm tried to calm his breath, tried to count, tried his best to hold very, very still as though the crushing weight of his emotions was something he could hide from. None of it was working.

 _None of it was working._ He tipped his neck forward the few inches he needed to press his forehead to the door, taking deep, whistling breaths. It wasn’t the fear of having to deceive Gil- but true terror that he seemed to have succeeded. Already he was guilty of lying to a police officer, obstruction of justice, and all he could think about was the steam leaking out from under his bathroom door, perfuming the air around him like steam from a kettle. Just standing there and wondering if his father was wet in more ways than one.

Malcolm’s heart raced, as he tried to count his breaths, tried to still his shaking hands.

After a moment, he pushed away from the door, standing still until his heart was slowing in his chest. He shucked himself free of his jacket with stiff, furious motions, tossing it from him onto his couch. Paced for a moment, before throwing his body down beside his discarded jacket, clasping his hands so tightly they couldn’t shake.

He’d meant it. He couldn’t do this. Wouldn’t survive it. Couldn’t trap himself in this tiny tower, holed up for days while his father shook and soaked his sheets a room away. He never thought he’d have to try. What had today’s affirmation been? ‘Be strong in your thoughts and goals’

Malcolm let out a shaky breath. Brought his forehead to his clasped hands.

He needed- he needed-

The bathroom door cracked, steam pouring from the opening and with it that sickly sweet smell, thick, like sugar at the bottom of a cup.

“Son!” His source of stress called cheerfully. “Can you bring me a towel? There’s none on the shelf. When’s the last time you did laundry?”

“I don’t do laundry.” Malcolm replied tensely. His voice grew in volume as he continued. “Mother uses a laundry service for this building, they come on Wednesday, and the only towels I have are in the hamper-!”

“Alright, alright Malcolm, no need to yell.” His father said, opening the door fully, and Malcolm stared as he stepped from the bathroom, wrapped only in one of the dirty towels. He was pink from the heat of the shower, and the water had dragged his curls down leaving them damp but undiminished. “I can hear you just fine- I was only asking.”

He smiled at Malcolm’s expression, the smile wider than it needed to be. The curls on his chest, silver and slate, seemed to shine from the water still beading on him.

“What?” He asked. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“You know you are.” Malcolm grit out, from between teeth that steadily held back a growl. “This entire visit has been designed to make me uncomfortable.”

Martin shook his head, disappointment in his warm eyes and stepped across the hall, into the bedroom.

All that naked skin, that sweet slick smell in his room… Malcolm grit his teeth until they were tight, locked together.

The last thing he needed to do was give ground, follow Martin, which he was sure exactly what the other man wanted him to do. From his perch on the couch, he could hear him humming, something quick and breathless even when out of tune. Charming even, and Malcoln was so angry.

So tired of the emotional whiplash this was causing him. He needed-

Needed it all to stop.

Malvolm stood, and walked into his bedroom before he could convince himself it was a bad idea.

“You have to leave, or I’m calling the police.”

“But they were just here.” Martin said playfully, opening and closing drawers in Malcolm’s dresser as he dug. “Or was that not Lt. Arroyo at the door?”

Martin tossed him another fluorescent smile, before pulling an undershirt overhead. “I’d love to see him again.”

The motion pulls the towel down just enough that Malcolm could see the pale skin of his hip, creased just under the weight of his belly, soft.

“No. Not Gil. Not someone who’s going to escort you back to your gilded cage politely.” Malcolm said tiredly, enunciating to convey his seriousness. “Just a 911 call, so they haul you out in cuffs.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?” Martin said tightly and then dropped his towel. Malcolm shut his eyes instinctively, ignoring the little chuckle his dad let out slip out. “No. You wouldn’t do that, son. You hated it so much the first time… your mother told me you cried for weeks after they first took me away.”

He hadn’t cried for weeks, he’d cried for months. 

“Why would she tell you that?” Malcolm asked, eyes opening in irritation, and Martin smiled, stepping into a pair of Malcolm’s boxers. They were too small for him, the thick waistband biting into that vulnerable spot on his hip, the clinging fabric holding him tightly. He wished he’d just stayed blind.

“Parents share things they don’t tell their children, Malcolm.” He said. “What are these, a medium? I’m getting soft…”

“What is this really about?” Malcolm asked, trying for calm.

“What do you mean?” His father asked jovially. The tightness around his eyes belied him. Those weren’t laugh lines.

“You didn’t escape a high security prison- one you were comfortable in, for nothing-”

“High security.” Martin scoffed. “Claremont’s lucky it was close to my home… I’m practically a benefactor. The money I’ve channeled into that place- money that should be saved for you and you sister…. Not that you need it, of course, you’ve both been so successful, but just in case. I think a back-up plan is important-”

“You don’t need to plan for my future.” Malcolm said. “You did enough when you made me the kid with the serial killer dad.”

His words cut through Martin’s cheery deflections, stabbing to the quick of the tension between them. Malcolm, despite the unsteady trip of his heartbeat, held his father’s gaze. He’d told Malcom he wouldn’t hurt him, and some small part of him really believed that. Maybe he just felt like he’d already been hurt so much, that it didn’t really matter.

“I didn’t do that.” Martin said, but for the first time since he’d shown up, he sounded as off kilter as Malcolm felt. “The media did that. Obsessed with death- they’re all just a bunch of vultures.”

‘ _Don’t tell Ainsley that._ ’ Malcolm wanted to say, but with Martin where he wanted him, he had bigger points to make.

“How much press do you think your escape will get?” Malcolm asked, changing course smoothly. “I don’t know if you heard, but Gil is stationing officers outside of my building. You’re already trapped here, for now. Just tell me why.”

A tense moment and Malcolm suddenly realized how close they’ve gotten while talking. He was only a couple inches from Martin, chest to chest. His father was still dotted with water from his shower, and he smelled fresh and sweet, Malcolm’s own iron scent wrapped around him from his gym towel. Malcolm swallowed, tried to focus as his dad followed the motion with an intense gaze.

Laughed tersely, the unexpected response making Malcolm stiffen.

“You’re… you’re quite good at that. They shouldn’t make you consult, they should just hire you.”

Malcolm let his mouth tip into a sad, half smile.

“Learned from the best.” He said softly, and then ducked his head.

His father had loved when Malcolm presented. Always loved a challenge, and learning all the ways to make his teenage alpha son awkward and submissive, was his idea of a lovely evening.

He hadn’t been cruel, just… dominant. Commanding in a way that made Malcolm’s budding instincts prickle.

Never sexual. No matter how much Malcolm had wished he wasn’t alone in that.

“Alright. I- I wasn’t safe there, okay son? There’s… a woman. An alpha-”

“Another prisoner?” Malcolm asked intently but Martin laughed. Uneasily but genuine.

“No. And no, not a prisoner. A criminal, hah, surely, but more like... a guard. A guard I owe favors to, silence. Recently, she’s become… strange during our meetings. I think she’s intent on collecting a very different type of currency, if you know what I mean.” He looked at Malcolm for a moment, brow furrowed. “Do you know what I mean-?”

“You think a guard was trying to collect sexual favors from you?” Malcolm said. “Why didn’t you tell mother?”

“She stopped being my alpha a long time ago, Malcolm.” Martin said tightly. “If we’re going to talk about this, may I put on a shirt? You may not have a problem walking around exposed, but I do.”

He brushed past his son, heading for Malcolm’s dresser, and Malcolm put his hand to his head.

“I don’t understand why this warranted a full scale break out-” Martin sighed explosively, and ripped Malcolm’s t-shirt drawer open, rifling it with fast, jerky motions. “You just said we’ve practically bought Claremont, that surely includes the guards-”

“Not, not this one.” Martin said, and some strange quality to his voice made Malcolm examine his face for a moment instead of his flimsy story. “Look, I’m not exactly thrilled to be here-”

“Stop.” Malcolm said, raising his hand in the face of another prattling flood. “I’m. This is insane but we’re surrounded for now. As long as you don’t leave my apartment, I won’t take action.”

The something strange in his voice had been _fear_.

What could make the Surgeon afraid? Malcolm had to know. Had to keep him here to know, even when he smelled like warm brew and dangerous ideas.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've finished 5 and 6 as well, although six is intentionally short. They need editing still, but soon 😂😭 I hope this one satisfies for now.

This had been a mistake.

Malcolm sat in front of the pale glow of his computer, fingers buried in his hair. Dani had sent him an email about their latest investigation, the short follow-up (the family was doing well, better for the anonymous benefactor who covered their bills). It was exactly the kind of pleasant courtesy he’d come to expect from Dani. It held nothing about the other case probably on her desk. His father, currently at large, slept peacefully in Malcolm’s bed unaware of how his smell had steeped in Malcolm’s thoughts.

Malcolm smiled humorlessly. Too bad for the force, he had some real thoughts about that one. A great profile for the sort of sick sycophant that would let a monster like that monster shelter under his roof.

Martin shifted in his sleep, restless and Malcolm forced his eyes shut. In the last few hours Martin had slid closer and closer to heat and now he was so deep in it, Malcolm could taste him. Wondered if there was slick in his boxers, hated that he wondered, that he couldn’t fucking stop. His weapons cabinet looked as appealing as the medicine cabinet, which was a bad sign.

“....mmn.”

Malcolm jerked, head whipping around at the sound, but his father slept on unaware of his son’s increasingly desperate struggle. Malcolm was many things… a trained fighter, and experienced submissive, a polite kisser. He was not, he would say, good at self control. Malcolm barely allowed himself ‘stable’. Anything more was really pushing it.

“Nn…”

Another shift and Malcolm realized with a dry mouth, that Martin was shifting his hips. The shape of him was barely visible in the dim light of his computer, the city having fallen asleep hours ago around them. He squinted to make out the shape of him… when every breath was a heady reminder.

Malcolm ripped his hands from his hair. He needed to get out of here… away from this. He stood quickly, moving quietly in the still of his apartment, pausing every so often to listen for the steady pace of Martin’s breathing.

Malcolm had thought he’d have to work harder to get his father to rest, but Martin had been out almost as soon as the sun had gone down. Nesting comfortably into his bed with a contented sigh that had slid into Malcolm’s brain like a worm.

Maybe he’d wanted to tease Malcolm, falling asleep so casually like that when he knew he was going to be soaking himself soon. Maybe he’d wanted Malcolm to come to him while he slept, to thumb open his soft mouth, to pull him free of his borrowed clothes, and sink between soft thighs.

Maybe Malcolm needed to get the fuck out of this apartment. He grabbed his keys from the counter- tossed a single look over his shoulder.

If Martin was gone when he came back, well that was what he wanted right?

=

He was blocks from his home before Malcolm realized he had no idea where he was going. It was colder outside than he’d expected, making him dig his hands deep into tailored pockets. He couldn’t go near anyone who knew Martin’s smell… so his usual haunts were out. He could maybe go to Ainsley’s… her beta nose would only catch ‘omega’ not the finer notes.

Malcolm wouldn’t ever put her in danger that way.

Malcolm scoffed at himself, at the mire of his life. The kid with the serial killer dad… Malcolm hadn’t been joking about the impact on his future Martin’s arrest had. Right now, trying to think of somewhere that a curious nose from the past couldn’t suss out his secret, he had to acknowledge how little he’d escaped Martin.

Even now, he could have a team of plain clothed officers tailing him. Gil had always been a worrier…

Malcolm huffed a laugh into his collar. Could he blame him? All Dad had to do was stare at him with wide careful eyes, waiting for Malcolm to be a good son, to make the dutiful choice. Maybe… tomorrow. Tomorrow he could go and look into the guards at the prison. Go in, flash his (almost) badge, try and get a feel for… whoever could send his father fleeing from his padded cell.

And then what? Did he really think Martin would just go back?

Did he even believe his father’s shallow story? Maybe it was the little boy in him still, but it was hard to imagine his father afraid of someone. Martin’s mask, if not flawless had always been fearless, and the money was normally enough to buy his way out of trouble. It didn’t make sense, and worse, Malcolm’s instincts were telling him something was wrong.

Stiil, those same senseless senses would never stand for sending Martin back into danger smelling how he did. Which meant either way, they’d probably be riding out this heat. 

The thought dragged Malcolm’s feet down, weighed him so that he eventually came to a stop, standing stock still in the road. Trying to think of a way around the only eventuality he could see. Again, the brief ecstatic thought of calling Gil and confessing, of releasing himself of the burden of having to make this moral decision alone.

“Malcolm?” He looked up to see Edrisa peering at him from behind windswept bangs and thick lenses.

“Oh- hi. Hey.” He said, and he was so shocked to see her that it took a moment for his brain to load the details. The colorful print of her silk blouse, the dangle and sway of her earrings… the two friends chatting just beside her, alternating between scrolling their phones, and shooting the pair of them curious and considering glances. “Hey, Edrisa, what are you-”

“What are you doing out here?” Edrisa asked. “Have you checked your phone? Your dad is-”

“Yeah, Gil caught me.” Malcolm said, cutting her off gently. “Gave me the rundown.”

He smiled at her, self-deprecating and disarming and Malcolm enjoyed Edrisa on a normal day, enjoyed the way her charmless wit made the average beat cop a little tense, a little confused. Now he wished he’d wandered in any other direction.

“Wow, I can’t believe he didn’t put you under protection… or at least with your mom. Weird. How are you?”

“I’m... “ Malcolm struggled to find words around the truth and couldn’t. Shrugged instead and Edrisa nodded sympathetically. “Thought I’d go for a walk, clear my head. What are you up to?”

“Oh! Uh, well… Some of my cousins are in town and I thought I’d show them around New York- you know all the weird stuff that, well, that I like… Anyway! So! We got our fortunes told-”

“Oh, right here?” Malcolm said, stepping closer to her in order to read the sign on the window more carefully, an intentional move that made her catch her breath and back up closer to her friends. Edrisa may be a beta, but her obvious infatuation more than compensated for her obliviousness to his hormones. The motion also placed him closer to the steps leading up to the worn door. “I’ve always wanted to get my fortune read.”

“Really? She’s… great…” Edrisa said, her voice trailing off as she watched him bound up the few steps and swing the door open. “Oh, well… bye, Malcolm!”

“Thanks, Edrisa!” He told her warmly, trying to give her a sincere smile. His shoulders didn’t relax until the door swung shut behind him, heavy and wooden.

He waited silently for a moment, hoping that she wasn’t lingering. Waiting for him. He estimated her fashionable family would want to move on soon enough… this was idiotic. He shouldn’t have left the house.

Or entered this one.

It had opened onto a narrow wooden hallway, leading to a doorway covered by a beaded curtain with light pouring through. He could hear music playing maybe, but softly and he stood for a moment, just breathing.

He couldn’t wander the streets of NY, covered in his father’s scent. He’d gotten lucky it was just Edrisa… not Dani, whose alpha nose would have picked up the new scent instantly. He checked his phone, the screen illuminating the darkened hallway and he assumed giving away his location because a moment later the beads shook and sung as a woman stepped through.

“Are you here for a reading, dear?” She asked, and Malcolm smiled politely.

“What methodology do you follow, if you don’t mind me asking? Palmistry, I-Ching, Tarot, divanatory runes…”

She laughed, a bright, tinkling sound, like a spoon on fine china.

“Oh, nothing so complicated.” She said, holding out her hand as though to shake. “I read tea leaves dear. Want me to make you a cup?”

Malcolm’s throat closed up, his immediate comfort here suddenly explained as he realized he’d been scenting rich black tea since he’d first walked in.

“No…” He started and he wasn’t sure what his face was doing, but you didn’t need to be psychic to tell that he wasn’t alright. Her face drew together with worry.

“Are you sure dear? Sometimes it’s better to know what lies ahead-”

“I’m sure.” Malcolm said on a gasp, so it wouldn’t be a growl and then he flung open the door and spilled himself back out into the exhaust filled NY air. He was gasping, choking on nothing and the sour, syrupy taste of the last drop of tea. “FUCK!”

He stumbled a few more steps on the cold sidewalk. Before stopping. Gagged once, hard, before reaching up numb fingers to flip his collar. Edrisa and her friends may still be near, just somewhere out of sight. There to watch his flight, shameful and staggering. God, all the way out here and he couldn’t escape him.

Why had he even tried?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is short because the next few will finally put in some work for that rating 💦

It was a slow walk back. He needed the silence, and so Malcolm was pensive when he opened the door.

Tea had been left to steep, bitter and dark, the scent almost metallic on his tongue and Malcolm fumbled the lock behind him. As though that scent needed to be bottled up, locked away like Martin should be. He set the bags down in front of the door with a rustle, no longer worried about waking Martin up.

He could hear him already.

The ragged, uneven rasp of his father’s breath filled the air, and every few moments he would hitch on a moan, his voice breaking when let into the open, as though the sounds were being forced out of him. Impossible to ignore, even if he’d wanted to.

Malcolm didn’t want to. 

It hurt for him to think of those sounds penned into the airless cell at Claremont, a little echo chamber for his father’s inescapable pleasure. Now, here, it was easy to see how if he’d been posted to stand here and guard him through this, it might drive him to violence. Malcolm shuddered. Too easy. He needed to control himself. Was his father truly any safer here, than in his cell?

Malcolm could see himself with a madman’s clarity, stepping into the bedroom, shedding his peacoat just before the door. Martin would be, what? Grinding into the bed, his dripping ass in the air. Or maybe on his back, bucking into his own fist, his teeth sunk into the leather of Malcolm’s cuffs, to muffle the sound.

The images lived with him, as clearly as when he was profiling, his clever, prolific imagination racing ahead of him. He shouldn’t be here, he knew that now. Malcolm had never felt so close to brutality, had never felt so fragile.

“Malcolm.” Martin called and in the living room, Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut. Clenched his teeth and tried to will himself to leave.

He needed to. Wanted to pound on his  _ own _ front door and ask for a guard…

_...he could. _ Gil had already told him that there was a car watching the apartment. He could go to the window, just a wave enough to bring them running. And then what? He’d get another candy for his trouble, and Martin would be dragged out, panting and leaking slick…

Malcolm shivered. Turned and walked toward his door but didn’t open it.

“Malcolm.” Martin called again, a keening quality to his voice. Even through the door the smell of him made Malcolm’s head pound, biology working against him. “I need- I need-”

“What do you need?” Malcolm asked, and Martin whined just from the sound of his son’s voice. “I can’t- I can’t come in, dad.”

“My boy, I know it’s not… not dignified.” Martin said, and how could he even talk like this? Malcolm’s jaw felt swollen, aching with the need to nuzzle beneath the greying curls of that beard and sink his teeth in. Still, he was breathless as he spoke and Malcolm’s mind supplied the cause readily. A hand on his cock, fingers spreading his wet hole, plunging and pumping obscenely as they whispered through a wall. “I just need-”

“What?” Malcolm asked. His palms, idol and wicked had crept from his sides to press flat against the wood. “What do you need?”

“I...hoh. Oh…  _ fuck _ .” Martin said, and then a sharp, bitten off sound. “Well. That took the edge off. Really, I just needed you to keep talking, my boy, quite the growl you’ve got-”

Malcolm slammed his palms into the door, a heavy thump and Martin fell abruptly silent.

“You should lock the door.” Malcolm said. “I’m- I’m going back out.”

“No, you aren’t.” Martin said. “You can’t leave me like this.”

He didn’t sound desperate, the heat making him soft enough to beg for Malcolm’s presence. No, he sounded smug and sure of Malcolm’s choice.

And Malcolm.

He couldn’t leave him like this. Like the growl that had begun cracking his soft voice when he’d first presented, like the truly desperate pheromones pouring off of him, his alpha nature meant he could barely peel himself away from the door. And to leave?

When  _ his _ omega smelled like  _ that _ ?

Malcolm growled again, and not even at the knowledge that Martin was already sure he was staying and was lording him over, but in a rage over the thought of him daring to leave.

“Your instincts, my boy.” Martin said, his voice cheerful and stretched thin in a way that let Malcolm know he was touching himself somehow, but not how. Maybe just his nipples, tracing them through his shirt, barest pressure. “I knew our familial bond-”

“You don’t know anything.” Malcolm said, tortured through the wood. His voice cracked on the last word, and while he couldn’t seem to pull himself away from the door, he did let himself sink to his knees before it. “What can keep you safe from me?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, after this chapter, we're on hiatus until Season 2 refills my cup! this was supposed to be a quick thing, this lil story, it really got away from me ;_;

It had been hours. He’d lost track of how often he’d heard Martin cum, the tortuous crest of his voice… the unsatisfied whine at another unfulfilling orgasm. Malcolm knew what he needed- same thing Malcolm did sometimes to sleep. A fat knot in him and teeth in his neck. Maybe the apple  _ didn’t _ fall far from the tree.

After all, it had been hours and he couldn’t pry himself away from the door. He’d stripped himself free of his tie, his body sweating as it overheated, adrenaline pouring through him at the sound of his omega in distress. Proof he was even more damaged than he’d thought-

The insistent pressure of his cock proved that right every time he shifted. Thinking about it only seemed to increase the intensity of his need- something Malcolm could note clinically only because he’d found the small bottle of something his dear mother had slipped him, and had taken about three times the amount. Anything to stave off a potential rut. 

“Oh… Please.” Martin begged, his voice roughened from sex, worn from the sheer exertion of his pleasure. Malcolm had coaxed Vijay through a few and he knew Martin’s heart must be racing even faster than his own, his body kicked into overdrive to secure a good breeding, even though by now he was infertile. Infertile and  _ on suppressants _ , Malcolm thought suddenly, his thoughts having led him in a circle long enough that tripping was inevitable. The drugs must have hit his system, clearing his mind exactly enough to allow him clarity, despite the steam hanging around him. He knew because he’d taken over his father’s power of attorney during Jessica’s kidnapping… and never given it back.

He told himself it was for her… but in his heart he knew it wasn’t. He desired to control Martin almost as much as Martin desired to control him apparently. Still, his disgusting, alphan urges didn’t include forcing a heat on an omega. He’d signed off on suppressants…  _ so how. _

The guard. His mind raced ahead to supply him with the logical answer. The guard must have failed to supply his father… purposefully. But why would Martin lie? He had no reason to say he’d never been on them… Malcolm thought, or tried to as his father panted in the room just ahead of him, desperate and empty.

He must have been embarrassed, Malcolm thought, breathing through his mouth unconsciously. The Surgeon failing to notice that he was being handed placebos.

“God. Malcolm. You smell… oh fuck. An alpha… all father’s truly want an alpha, don’t they. Even when they… ah! Pretend it- it doesn’t matter-”

“Classist.” Malcolm muttered, the first thing he’d said since his father had spent a merry few minutes describing his mother’s cock in detail. He’d gone silent out of petty disgust- had stayed silent, a witness to his father’s steadily growing lust. “Tell that to Ainsley. Or better yet, Jessica.”

“Mm, maybe I should tell your sister. Call her up and have a nice… loong…-”

“Why?” Malcolm asked. He should’ve just stayed silent. Shouldn’t have engaged. Normally, he’d recommend a victim in his position to try to engage and humanize the killer, but this was more like a hostage situation. They both had something the other wanted. “Ainsley doesn’t have what you need, dad.”

“What do I need?” Martin purred.

He shouldn’t answer, but it’s like his stupid fucking mouth wouldn’t stay shut. Had to be the pills.

“A knot.” Malcolm said, growled, lips peeling back to snarl the word, admit his basest thought out loud. “A fat knot. Filling you up-”

“My boy!” Martin exclaimed, and Malcolm could hear a wet slapping sound, skin meeting skin. God, was it his fingers crammed into his wet little hole, the blunt instruments of doctor- or maybe his father was pulling on his fat little cock, wet and quick. When he’d caught Malcolm at it before bed as a boy, he’d told him it was natural after all.

Malcolm had only been squeezing in an extra round so his dreams (so violent, intense and red lately) wouldn’t have him messing his sheets.

“Is that an offer?” Martin said, his voice a purring roll and Malcolm can’t help it, his growl just thrums from his chest, up and out of his throat, a deeper rattle that silences his father before he could wrestle his jaw shut. His head thunked onto the wood in front of him in the resulting silence.

“It sounds like it could be.” Martin said curiously, the lust tainting his voice taking a backseat to puzzlement although the wet sounds hadn’t slowed, maybe even sped up as another growl pulled itself from him. “Even though that would be, I mean… besides the obvious, ah, moral taboo… you shouldn’t- shouldn’t- oh fuck, yes, Malcolm! Haaa…”

Malcolm’s hand were stone fists at his sides.

“Hah. Well. That was a good one.” Martin sounded pleased and winded and gorgeous. It made Malcolm’s mouth water. “Son? Are you okay?”

“Do you ever-” Malcolm cleared his throat. “Do you ever wonder if Mother’s suspicions of you cheating were actually projections?”

“Projections?” Martin asked, drawing out the word, so Malcolm could hear the moment it hit home. “Ah. No, sorry son. If you had hoped for a moral shortcut to your fetishistic desire for me, it doesn’t lie in that direction. Our blood-”

“-is the same universal type as several of your doctor friends and several of mother’s friends. Did you get a DNA test?”

“No…” Martin said, but there was doubt in his normally vibrant tones. “But you have my eyes.”

Secretly, Malcolm agreed. He and his father were alike, in stature and color and thought. Still often as a boy he had fantasized that maybe it was simply his mother’s indiscretions that had doomed him to his desperate crush. The one that had made violent, disturbing messes of his sheets, and fractured any connection he could have had with his peers. There was something tremendously satisfying in torturing his father with the thought now.

“No, I, I held you, in the hospital. I smelled you- before you had a scent of your own. I’d always thought it was a myth… but you smelled like your mother and I.” His father’s voice was plaintive- Malcolm had no idea if he could believe him. “You’re just deflecting the conversation… trying to disguise your, honestly, unexpected interest in me.”

“Interest in you?” Malcolm said disdainfully. It would have held more weight had he kept his voice from cracking. “I have no interest in you dad, or in your mind games.”

“Remember son, I can still smell you now.” Martin purred, and Malcolm felt himself burn with a particular sort of embarrassment he thought he’d purged himself of years ago. “Phew. I need water before I go again after that one. Do you have any toys in here?”

Malcolm stood in a burst of motion, one hand reaching for the doorknob before he forced himself back violently. Malcolm paced, shivering. He couldn’t leave, but every inch of his apartment was thick with scent, dizzyingly so.

Again, the desperate urge to leave, to run before the wall he’d spent so long carefully building between him and his feelings for his father.

Could he truly run from this?

When Malcolm put his hand on the knob this time, he turned it.


End file.
